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The promise in his voice makes my stomach flutter for entirely different reasons.

“Room service?” he says into the phone. “Yeah, I’d like to place an order for room 3247.”

I watch him as he talks, admiring the way his muscles shift under his skin, the confident way he handles everything. He orders without even asking what I want. He gets a selection of appetizers, sandwiches, fruit, chocolate-covered strawberries.

“Thirty minutes,” he says after hanging up. “Think you can wait that long?”

“I’ll survive,” I say with a smile.

To my surprise, he settles back against the headboard and pulls me into his arms. I curl against his chest, my head on his shoulder, feeling oddly content.

This isn’t what I expected from a one-night stand. The cuddling, the care, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious.

“So,” he says, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder. “Art history. Tell me more about that.”

“You really want to know?” Most people’s eyes glaze over when I talk about my degree.

“I really want to know.” His voice is sincere. “What got you into it?”

I settle more comfortably against him. “My grandmother, actually. She had this incredible collection of paintings. Nothing famous, just pieces she loved. When I was little, she’d tell me stories about each one. She’d tell me who painted it, why they chose those colors, what was happening in the world when they created it.”

“Sounds like she was special.”

“She was.” A familiar ache settles in my chest. “She died when I was sixteen. Left me all her books about art, said I was the only one who understood why beauty mattered.”

His arms tighten around me slightly. “She was right.”

“About what?”

“Beauty mattering. And you understanding it.” He tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “You see things differently. I could tell from the first moment I saw you.”

The intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “What do you mean?”

“The way you were watching my friends at the bar earlier. You weren’t judging them like everyone else. You were seeing their story.”

I remember now, the way those strangers had been so cruel about the age gap, making assumptions. “People are so quick to judge what they don’t understand.”

“Exactly.” He strokes my hair, the gesture surprisingly tender. “Most people see what they expect to see, not what’s actually there.”

“And what do you see when you look at me?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

His eyes darken, his thumb brushing across my bottom lip. “A woman who’s never been seen for who she really is. Someone hiding behind what everyone expects her to be.”

The accuracy of his observation steals my breath. “You got all that from watching me for five minutes?”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.” His hand slides down to rest over my heart. “Plus, you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you’re drowning and pretending you know how to swim.”

A laugh escapes me, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”

“Want to tell me about it?”

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak about tomorrow, about the life waiting for me. Instead, I trace patterns on his chest, following the line of dark hair downward.

"Tell me about how you live. What's your life like?"